


Shelter

by Severina



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Community: prompt_in_a_box, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 13:31:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6706306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though lost and confused, Belle makes her way to Mr. Gold. She does what Jefferson told her to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shelter

**Author's Note:**

> Season One. Written for LJ's prompt_in_a_box community for the prompt 'shelter'.
> 
> * * *

Belle is used to routine. She sleeps. She eats the soft food and water that is sent through the slot in her door twice a day. Occasionally she follows the nurse to the shower room, where she shivers beneath a tepid spray. She tries to comb out her long hair with her fingers. She doesn't know why she was locked away or who holds her key, but she cannot remember doing anything wicked. She can't remember anything at all.

The dark haired man in the white nurse's uniform is new. A break in her routine.

There is usually a man with yellow hair who comes in with pills in tiny paper cups, and a woman in a peaked cap who masks her sneer with a sickly smile while she jabs her with long needles that leave her bruised and disoriented. And there is a woman with red lips and kohl-rimmed eyes who sometimes opens the slot in her door and stares at her, silent and malevolent.

But no one has ever held out a hand before. 

Experience tells her to shy away, because nothing good has ever come from the people who hold her prisoner. Instinct tells her to reach out. Belle doesn't remember much of anything at all, but she feels deep inside that she has always followed her heart. 

She takes the man's hand and lets him pull her to her feet.

She listens when he tells her who to find and what to say, even though her mind is whirling from the latest prick of the needle and it's so very hard to concentrate. She mentally repeats the instructions over and over as he leads her up the stairs and into chaos, so many people rushing to and fro, more people than she has ever seen in her entire life. He takes her outside, this Jefferson, and tucks her arms into a thick coat, and she blinks in the unfamiliar sunlight and lifts a hand to shield her eyes.

"Remember," he tells her. "Find Mr. Gold."

He gives her a gentle push to get her started. Her thick-soled shoes make no sound on the pavement and she feels like she's floating, awash in a sea of bright lights, unfamiliar scents, and half-remembered colours. She resolutely puts one foot in the front of the other and tries not to be distracted by the flash of a lumbering conveyance to her left; the tart, tangy odor of roasting apples drifting from an eatery to her right.

Her lips move silently. _Find Mr. Gold._

* * *

She feels calmer, somehow, as soon as she steps into the shop. Warm browns and muted silvers, and the clamor of the street muffled behind thick glass. And the man, too, clothed in colours that remind her of soft earth and trees bare for winter. She knew those things once, and they quieten her. Her heart stops trying to push its way out of her chest, though her mind still feels muddled.

She repeats what Jefferson has told her and hopes that the words are true. Regina? She knows no Regina, but the thin man's face contorts in recognition at the name. 

Belle stands her ground when he approaches her, though she feels her body tense and poise to run. But the hand that he lifts merely comes down on her shoulder and squeezes gently through the layers of thick coat and thin hospital gown. 

"You're real," he murmurs. "You're alive."

Real. Alive. They seem odd concepts. She doesn't feel real. _Nothing_ feels real, not even the floorboards beneath her feet or the dust motes hanging in the air. The four walls of her cell were real: she traced their contours every day, fingers picking out the tiny imperfections in the stone. The heavy spoon she used to eat her porridge was real, and the squeak of the nurses shoes on the hallway floor. Belle has the sudden wild notion to flee back there – to where there were no surprises, no strange men offering her freedom, no loud noises or bright colours.

Mr. Gold flicks his gaze across her quickly, from her clunky shoes to the disarray of her hair, his eyes pained. "She did this to you?"

He is the antithesis of that icy stare through the viewing port in her door. Her heart turns cold at the thought of returning to that barren cell, to the gaze of those dispassionate eyes. If this Regina could take her once, why not again? She had only the word of her mysterious savior that this man, this Mr. Gold, would be able to prevent it. She takes a half step forward, suddenly unsure.

"I was told you'd… protect me?"

His oddly expressive face crumples then. "Oh yes," he says. "Yes, I'll protect you."

He moves to touch her, to hold her, and she allows it. Instinct again, telling her that she can trust this man, this stranger who seems to recognize her. He smells of wood smoke and fresh straw, and his long hair tickles her nose. She stands still when he embraces her, her own arms at her sides. But he doesn't seem to care that she doesn't clasp him back. He holds her tighter. His arms are strong, but gentle, too. Warm and full of comfort. It occurs to Belle that she has not felt either in a very long time. 

Something stirs, far back in her memory, and when he releases her she frowns at him in confusion. "I'm sorry," she says haltingly. For a moment in her mind's eye she sees the shopkeeper in leather and brocade, the light casting a greenish-gold tinge to his skin. When she blinks the fanciful image is gone and she sees only Mr. Gold, waiting patiently for her to speak. His palm still rests on her shoulder, and she imagines that she can feel the warmth of him even through her thick cloak. "Do I know you?" she asks.

"No," Mr. Gold replies softly. "But you will."

The answer only serves to confuse her further. But he lifts a hand slowly and carefully to her face, his thumb brushing gently against her cheekbone. The smile he gives her is watery; his expression a turmoil of pain and anger, awe and wonderment. And some of that translates to his arms when he holds her again. His limbs quiver, but his palm is warm and heavy in her hair. His heart beats a simple rhythm against her breast. 

Belle follows her instincts again, this time wrapping her arms tentatively around his waist. He shudders, sighs against her hair. And though his fine suit and his curio-filled shop still feel like an illusion, _this_ feels real. 

Somehow, she has found her way home.


End file.
